by Larry Karp
“The manager is going to ask you for references. You can’t very well walk in and tell him you kept books for your father at Stark Music Company in St. Louis.”
“Dad, for heaven’s sake. Give me more credit than that. Before I came over here, I stopped home and did a little work.” She got up from the table, then marched into the living room, Stark and Martin hurrying after her. “By the time I’m finished with Mr. Tabor, he’ll be pleading with me to start work on the spot. Just leave that to me.”
But I need to go with Martin up to Harlem.”
“Fine. Joe will be back in an hour or so. He can stay with Scott, and you can go then. That will be better, anyway—with the after-work crowds on the sidewalks and in the subway, there’s less chance someone will notice Martin.” She picked up her hat, adjusted it on her head, set the pin with a thrust that made Stark cringe. Then she grabbed the folder and tucked it under her arm. “I’d better get moving, or I’ll be too late.”
Martin ran after her. “Mrs. Stanley, I don’t know how to thank you. But please be careful.”
Nell turned a tight smile on him. “Don’t thank me until your girl is back with you. In the meanwhile, mind your manners, and listen to what Mr. Stark tells you. Don’t give us anything else to worry about.”
Martin looked at Stark, who burst out laughing.
Chapter Ten
Manhattan
Thursday, August 24
Late afternoon
Nell stifled a smile as Bartlett Tabor leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed, forefinger playing at the dimple in his chin. Trying to size her up from across the desk. “Well, I’ve got to tell you, Miss Stanley—”
“Mrs. Stanley.”
Sly smile. “Of course.” He pointed at the ring on her left fourth finger. “I must say, this is a new one on me—a person coming in to apply for a position before I’ve even advertised it.”
Nell raised the newspaper from her lap, held it up to him. “The power of the press, sir. Along with what I’m sure was unwelcome publicity, you did get a little free advertising. Having your bookkeeper on the run, gone from one minute to the next, can’t be easy for you.”
“More difficult than you know. Our assistant bookkeeper didn’t come in for work today. It just so happens she’s the bookkeeper’s girlfriend, so I suppose she took off with him. They’re probably on a train, somewhere around Cincinnati by now.”
“Well, then.” Nell extended a hand, palm up. “Here I am.”
Tabor laughed. “The answer to my prayer, even before I’ve asked it.”
“If getting your books in order and keeping them that way is what you were going to pray for, then yes.”
Tabor let his chair drift to the upright, then grinned across the desk at Nell. “You’re a pretty eager beaver.”
“Perhaps just an early bird.”
He laughed again. “Whatever, you’re plenty quick. Let’s see…” He picked up the manila folder Nell had given him when she’d come into the room. “Mrs. Eleanor Samuels Stanley…age forty-four…West Seventy-second Street…musician, hmm. What instrument?”
“Piano.”
“Why aren’t you out looking for performance opportunities?”
“I’ve had quite enough of that, thank you. I’ve played professionally, but the truth is, I’ve never been good enough to get past being an accompanist, and I’m tired of the grind, the bad hours, bad food, difficult traveling.”
“You could teach piano.”
“Yes, I suppose I could. But I don’t have the patience to keep trying, day after day, to get sullen, sulking children to do something their parents have forced upon them, when they’d much rather be playing out-of-doors. That’s why I took the bookkeeping courses—”
“At Stephens Secretarial College.”
“In Chicago, yes.”
“And you worked for five years at Leonard’s Department Store.”
Which existed only in Nell’s imagination. She held her breath.
“Why did you leave?”
“My husband got an irresistible offer to work in New York.”
“And you found work at Randall Music. Too bad the family closed the firm when Mr. Randall died.”
Nell nodded. “He was a fine old gentleman. He treated his employees very well.”
“So you’ve not worked now for the better part of a year.”
“I decided to give the piano another chance, but it just isn’t working out. No surprise, really. My husband and I were talking about it the other day, and I told him I thought I’d rather earn my living as a bookkeeper, and enjoy playing piano evenings, at home.
Tabor leaned forward. “Do you need to earn a living? Even with your husband’s irresistible job?”
Nell warned herself not to underestimate the man, or get too clever and box herself into a corner. “No, Mr. Tabor, I don’t need to. I want to. Would you like to spend your days cleaning a house that’s not particularly dirty? Gossiping and making foolish talk over lunch with foolish, idle women? Worrying about whom to invite to dinner to advance your husband’s career, then fretting for days before whether it will go well, and days after, whether it did?”
Tabor laughed again. “No, I certainly wouldn’t. But does your husband approve of having you work? You can understand, I’d rather not hire someone who’ll work a few days, then leave because her husband is complaining his dinner’s not on the table on time.”
“My husband is pleased to have me do what satisfies me.”
She expected another chuckle from Tabor, but it didn’t come. “All right,” he said. “Your references look to be in order, and you’ve got very complimentary letters from young Randall and your supervisor at Leonard’s.”
That’s the way I wrote them, Nell thought, and decided to push matters along. “Mr. Tabor, I’d like to work at Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder, and I believe I’m qualified in all respects. In fact, if the firm is ever in need of a fill-in pianist, I’d be right there. If you have doubts, why don’t you take me on for a month, on a trial basis?”
Tabor leaned back again, protruded his lower lip, nodded. “You’re an interesting woman, Mrs. Stanley. What line of work did you say your husband is in?”
“I didn’t. He’s chief accountant at a brokerage.”
Nell readied herself for a prolonged personal fishing expedition, but Tabor surprised her by suddenly sitting upright and saying, “All right. Would eighteen dollars per week be acceptable, at least to start?”
“I think so…yes.”
“Good. As a matter of fact, you may well be more suited to the job than you realize. I need someone with your degree of maturity and confidence. The company is in something of a…well, a delicate position right now. Let’s just say there have been some irregularities, and we need to pay the closest attention to every item in every day’s figures. Careful scrutiny and discretion will be of the utmost importance.”
“I understand. When would you like me to start?”
Tabor studied his pocket watch. “Well, it’s after five. Perhaps I can show you your space, and give you a bit of an idea as to what the job will entail. Then you’ll be able to start first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll be glad to stay and learn the job, sir.” Now, she smiled. “I’m sure my husband won’t object if his dinner is a little late.”
Tabor laughed. “Touché.” He pushed back from his desk and got to his feet. “Let’s get started.”
***
Stark wondered whether they were on a fool’s errand. Nearly three quarters of an hour, sitting on a bench at the southeastern corner of Riverside Park, but no sign of Berlin. Martin looked like a puppet on a string held by a maniac: every couple of minutes, up he’d jump, peer down the block, then flop back onto the bench. Footsie Vinny seemed fully absorbed in paring his fingernails with a vicious-looking knife, but then he folded the blade, jerked his head in Martin’s direction, and growled, “Hey, kid.”
&nb
sp; Martin, halfway to his feet, froze.
“Siddown, would you, and stay down. You want to get people to noticing us, it’d be a hell of a lot easier, you just put up one a them signs with neon lights.”
Martin lowered himself slowly back to the bench. “I keep thinking about Birdie,” he murmured.
Stark slapped a hand onto the young man’s thigh. “I know just how difficult it is to stay patient when you’re worried about someone you care for, but that’s what you’ve got to do right now. You need to wait for the fish to bite. Try to set the hook too soon, you’ll lose your fish.”
Vinny’s face eased into a smile. “Hey, there, Grandpa, you some kinda poet? You talk a damn good game.”
“Wait till you see me play,” Stark said, then motioned toward a couple of figures crossing West End Avenue, on the opposite side of the street. “Is that our fish? If it is, it looks like he’s brought some protection.”
They watched as the men came up close. “Don’t look like that protection’s got much muscle,” Vinny whispered. “Aw right, you guys stay here. Be right back with some fish for you to clean.”
Vinny scuttled a few yards to crouch behind a hedge at the southernmost tip of the park. Martin started forward; Stark pushed him back onto the bench. “Let him do his work. We don’t want to spook them.”
Before Berlin and his companion could get within shouting distance of the Chatsworth, Vinny was out from behind the hedge, across the street, and onto the sidewalk, facing the two men. To Stark, it looked for all the world like a man unexpectedly happening upon two friends; if he hadn’t been watching for it, he’d never have noticed the way Vinny’s right arm was bent at the elbow, the hand extended only slightly, not nearly enough for a handshake. Berlin looked around, but a little wiggle of Vinny’s extended hand snapped the composer’s head back. The gunman motioned, first with his head, then his hand, and the three men moved slowly, off the sidewalk. They waited as a car came up to the end of Seventy-second, and turned north on Riverside Drive. Then, the little parade proceeded into the park.
Berlin’s companion looked frightened, but the composer’s face was a study as he caught sight of Stark and Martin on the bench. He started to speak, but got out no more than a syllable before Vinny jammed the barrel of his pistol into the composer’s back. “Can it!” Vinny barked. “Mr. B, you will speak when spoken to, and not any other time, kapeesh? And you, Mr…”
“Hess,” the man squeaked. “I’m Mr. Berlin’s musical secretary. I write down and arrange his music—”
“Well, that’s just fine, then.” A harsh growl. “I guess you shouldn’t have no trouble arrangin’ to keep your mouth shut tight. Now. We’re all gonna get up and walk down the way there, back inside the park. We don’t want nobody bustin’ up our private business meetin’, okay? Let’s go.”
Vinny directed Berlin and Hess across the grass, toward the border of shrubs and trees that separated the park from Riverside Drive. Stark and Martin followed. Vinny gestured with his gun, then gave Hess a shove in the direction of a bench. “You go and lay down there, have yourself a nice little rest while we talk to your boss. If you gotta take a leak, take it now, in the bushes, ‘cause if I see your head come up or your feet go anywhere near the ground, that’ll be the last move you ever make. Am I clear?”
Hess, slack-jawed, nodded, then practically ran to the bench, and in one motion, took off his skimmer, set it on the grass, and stretched out on the wooden slats. Vinny turned back to Berlin. “Okay, now, King—that is right, ain’t it? King Irving of Ragtime? I want to know if you made any progress with our friend’s music?”
Berlin’s eyes bulged. “Look, I told you already. I don’t have the music. I’ve never seen the music. So how am I supp—”
A sharp crack across his cheek from Vinny’s left hand shut off whatever else Berlin might have been going to say. “Mr. B, you are getting me upset, and you don’t want to do that. Now, I asked you a question that there’s two answers for: yes or no. Which one is it?”
Berlin spluttered. Which got him another open palm to the cheek. “Listen good now, Your Highness. I been tryin’ to help, you know, shake up your head a little, and maybe you’ll remember which word’s the answer. But I helped you all I’m gonna. This’s the last time I ask you. “Any progress? Yes or no.”
Martin hoped he’d never hear anyone talk to him in that tone of voice.
Berlin rubbed his cheek. “No.”
Vinny nodded several times. Stark began to worry. He’d told Vinny no damage, just scare the living daylights out of Berlin, but the way Vinny was regarding the little man made Stark hope the thug’s enthusiasm for his work didn’t carry him away. Vinny blew out a deep breath. “Well, okay, I gotta admit, that is an answer. Not the answer I wanted to hear, and like I said last night, I ain’t gonna wait forever for the one I do want.”
“You gave me five days.” Berlin’s voice was like a tightly-drawn string.
“Hey!” Vinny grinned in the direction of Stark and Martin. “You hear? He does listen, don’t he? An’ besides, he knows how to count. But you know what, King? It ain’t a good idea to leave a job till the last minute, and definitely not an important job. ‘Cause things can happen, complications, you know? Like the one that happened today. And now, all of a sudden, I ain’t feeling so patient like I was. You do know what I’m talkin’ about, right?”
“I don’t have the faintest goddamn idea,” Berlin said.
Against his will, Stark felt admiration for Berlin. The little man kept his eyes level, looked Vinny square in the eye, and there was no pleading in his gaze or in his voice.
“Well, then, I guess I gotta give you a goddamn idea, don’t I? What I’m talkin’ about is the girl, the one you snatched—”
“I what.”
The gun waggled. “Mr. B, you got yourself some very bad manners, you know that? It ain’t polite to interrupt somebody while they’re talkin’. Now, just so everything is above the board, I’m talkin’ about this young guy’s assistant, who happens to also be his girlfriend. She didn’t come in to work today, and then her mother got a phone call, sayin’ that she’d get her daughter back when Martin here and Scott Joplin turn themselves in to the cops. So I’m afraid we got us a new situation. I ain’t sure we can wait no five days anymore.”
For the first time, Berlin seemed befuddled. He looked from Martin to Stark. “Listen, I…I don’t know what’s going on here. I don’t have any idea who this girl is. I don’t even know her name.”
Vinny nodded toward Martin.
“Birdie Kuminsky,” Martin said. “Or Bertha.”
Berlin shook his head slowly. “She’s the assistant bookkeeper? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen her. I don’t schmooze with the help. What can I say to you guys? I don’t have Scott Joplin’s music, I didn’t take the girl. Period. You’ve got to believe me.”
Looking at Vinny, Stark thought of a bull catching sight of a cow in the next field. “We don’t gotta do nothing,” Vinny said. “But what you gotta do is get this mess fixed up, and fast. I want a contract for Joplin, and I want the girl back in the same number of pieces she got took away in. Stealin’ music, that’s one thing—you don’t come around, you get to buy yourself a set of new choppers. But snatching a girl…” He pointed toward Stark. “My client there is very upset about that. He says you better know if she turns up hurt, you get a hundred times what she got. And if she turns up dead or she don’t turn up at all, I only start with your teeth, and when I’m done, you ain’t gonna have any need for new ones, or for nothing else either. Now. Do you believe me?”
Berlin nodded.
“I don’t hear nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then.” Vinny slipped his pistol back into the holster behind his jacket, but his stance clearly said that trying to take advantage of that move would be foolish. “And just one more thing, Your Highness. I sure hope you understand what goes down if you call in the cops or an
y kind of muscle. I just made you some promises, and it’s bad for me and my business if I don’t keep my promises. Mr. Stark is my boss on this job, but I got a big boss too, and when one of his employees or one of his customers gets hurt or dead, there is hell to pay. For your own sake, I hope you do believe me.”
Berlin smiled. Actually smiled. Martin gawked. Stark again felt admiration, if grudging. “Yes, I believe you. I grew up on the lower east side. Worked at Nigger Mike’s place.”
Vinny nodded. “Good. Glad you know the system.” He pushed Berlin toward the bench where Hess lay, every muscle exactly where it had been ten minutes earlier. “Go on then. If your friend there ain’t arranged a heart attack for himself, get him up offa the bench and take him home.”
***
For the first time in Robert Miras’ recollection, Berlin didn’t go directly to his piano after his evening’s entertainment. The valet’s eyebrows went up when his employer told him to get a pot of coffee going, and when it was ready, to bring in cups for Mr. Hess and himself. But Miras just said, “Yes, sir,” and went off to carry out the order.
Once the valet was out of the room, Berlin and Hess dropped into facing armchairs, and for a few minutes sat and stared at each other. Finally, Hess broke the silence. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
Berlin nodded. “Sorry you got involved, Cliff. That’s more than I pay you to do.”
Hess waved off the apology. “I offered, didn’t I? Thought maybe two of us would be safer, some joke. We could have had an army there, and it wouldn’t have helped.”
Berlin pounded a fist onto the armrest. “God damn, Cliff! That crazy hayseed and my own bookkeeper, pushing me around like that. What the hell am I going to do?”
Hess thought the question might be rhetorical, but decided to take the plunge. “It sounds like they won’t be satisfied unless you draw up a contract and put on that play. Considering the alternative…”
Berlin moved up to the edge of his chair. Hess thought he could see the nerves in his boss’ face and hands quivering. “How the hell am I supposed to do that when I don’t have the goddamn play?”
